Whispers

It was a small diner, bright and comfortable, situated just at the edge of the French Quarter where the gentleman could be found most mornings. He sat in the back, sipping on the same black brew before breakfast: eggs over easy, two pancakes, hold the syrup. And it was the same girl that brought his eggs and poured his coffee each day, a brilliant smile beneath those dancing green eyes and the striking streaks of white in her auburn hair."Merci beaucoup.""Y' welcome, m'sieu." Her long white gloves bore no comment, for she always wore them, and most assumed them part of the uniform.The routine was comfortable. To thrive in New Orleans required home ground, and this small restaurant was home ground for many of the notables of the wealthy neighboring families, for the waifs and strays that could come in each morning and receive a slice of bread or a cup of soup, and for the young folk that liked the welcoming atmosphere.One such waif entered through the front door, his fingers poking through his torn gloves to leave prints on the glass and set the bell to tinkling wildly. A mop of auburn hair fell into the boy's face, hiding the thin, sharp angles and obscuring his eyes. It could not hide his grin."Mais, look at dat smilin' face," the girl said sunnily, sliding hands to hips. "I'd almos' t'ink y' were trouble."She was always a pleasant part of the scenery—'Rose' her nametag said—and she always had a soft spot for the particular urchin that now sidled into across the tiled floor, hands behind his back with a sheepish expression on his face. She talked bayou, and rumor had it she had a small house down there, but no one had gotten past rumor with her."Got somet'in' for y'," the little boy said, eyes on the floor and his scruffy, worn shoes. "For me?" Rose placed her hand over her heart. "Now, Remy, y' goin' t' be makin' me feel all special."He squirmed a little at her response, but he peeked up at her, shy, lovestruck smile plastered across his face. There was a crush if anyone had ever seen one. He nodded and reached forward with dirty hands to offer a pair of rich brown leather gloves. It was quite doubtful whether he had paid for them with his own money—five-fingered discounts were not uncommon among the small fry that came through, but one could never tell with the hard-working altruism of street kids that received a little love.Rose's face grew serious. She knelt down to the little boy's height.The gentleman watched with interest from his table.She whispered, "Thank you," and accepted the gloves, then handed him a slice of bread, equally solemn, and gave him a kiss atop his scruffy head. "Now off wit' y'." And she shooed him out the door. For a long moment, she stood there, slumped against the counter, a slight frown at the edge of her mouth. Perhaps, she wanted to cry. Perhaps, she did not.The gentleman waved for the bill and she straightened and spun on her heel to get it."Nice o' de p'tite," Jean-Luc said."Yes." She was smiling again. "Y' have a lovely day, M'sieu LeBeau.""And you the same."

De last t'ing I remember of all de times I'll ever live is de t'ingI try most t' forget. Dere are times a homme knows he's got t' go, t' fold,pick up de chips, an' leave de table. Mais life keeps him playing.Trut' is, life's de biggest gambit o' dem all.

-

"Is it worth the gambit, Father?"

Wide glowing red eyes on white met narrowed glowing red eyes on black. Wind whipped fiercely around the two lean figures standing on the opposing sides of a broken bridge. Auburn hair blew into the face of a young woman and white into that of an old man.

Father and daughter. Père et fille. Witness on witness.

The pink glow of charge flowed across their skins, their clothes—her in the blue tank top and jeans of another life and he in the almost rags of his obscurity. The crimson irises of her eyes were livid with charge she could not release. So unlike him. So terribly like him. She waited, arms slightly lifted, fingers hooked restraining pain.

"Is it worth it?" she cried over the noise of the gale.

Mem'ry shatters for me dere. Bits an' pieces tormentin' me.

"Do what you can, Rose. Do what you have to," Logan says.

"Is it worth it, Remy?" she asks, white and chestnut hair falling across her emerald eyes, damp with tears, real glittering, shattering tears. "Why us? Why does it have to be us?"

"I did what I could," she whispered, dying in his arms. "Tell Grandfather Logan," she paused to breathe, "I did what I could."

She shattered, the charge leaping from her fingertips, her eyes, her shoulders, her hips, her knees, her feet. Pink lightning flickered, intensified, writhed in electric tendrils to bind her to the New Sun. She 'pathed him, increasing the fire, the charge, the burn. All of creation seemed to scream with her as she 'pathed more and more.

And time shattered, loosed and wild, rebelling all constraints put upon it.

My mem'ries are 'bout as constan' as de groun' o' New Orleans beneath our feet. 'N de case dat y' don' know what dat means, New Orleans sits on de river, de bayou, de levees. It's all muck and mire and sinkin' groun' if y' don' know where t' dig. So I'll build y' de house o' m' story, but don' be too sure it won' sink.

-

"We're Assassins, soeur. It's what we do." Anna Marie set down her brush on the gilded vanity and studied Bella Donna with hooded eyes.

Broken

STORY SUMMARY: Lives, fates, and time itself lie broken in the hands of the Witness.

DISCLAIMER: All characters and organizations (with the exception of small, mostly unnamed minor characters) throughout the series are the product of Marvel.

CANONICAL NOTES: This story arc utilizes a strange combination of movieverse and comicverse and none of the above. Sorry about that.

LANGUAGE AND ACCENTS: Cajun French is courtesy of Heavenmetal (many thanks). I will attempt to reproduce accents in this story arc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is the granddaddy of my entire fanfiction universe (with a couple of exceptions). Expect to see characters, relationships, names, and premises you recognize. Realize: it all leads somewhere you won't.

(UNBOUND) entries are in drafting phase and are likely to change radically before complete.